Saturday, October 11, 2008, Isla Grande to Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

Are we jinxed?  Did someone put a curse on us?  Why is this cruise so fraught with problems? 

I had time to think about a few things this morning as I was waiting for Jeff. Why haven’t I enjoyed this cruise?  Bottom line: I’m – we’re – just not relaxed.  We have a deadline to make, which we didn’t have in the past.  We always left when the weather was good, stayed if we felt like staying, moseyed through towns, chatted with locals.  On this trip, we’re so focused on getting to Grenada by mid-November, we have robbed ourselves of the joy of the journey.  Of course, that doesn’t account for all the mechanical problems we’ve had, but our reactions to them are amplified because we’re still stressed.  The November date is not random; that’s when the trade winds set in; if we don’t get up around that area and to the inside of the Grenadine Island chain, we’ll be bucking head winds and won’t be able to make it.  Countless boats have tried that and had to give up, turning back; the prevailing route is the opposite direction of where we’re going.  You may wonder why we chose to counter common routes.  Our reasoning was to be positioned to cross the Atlantic in the spring, but, still wanted to experience cruising in the Caribbean as we know we won’t be back this way again.  Now it looks like we ma not cross, but we’re so sick of the heat, this seems like the best way to get out.  Follow the plan.  I’m hoping when we make the Grenadines our pace can slow so we can relax.

Perhaps we’ll have passed most of the mechanical problems as well. This morning we had clear water, sunny sky, no wind.  We were ready at 08:30.  Jeff started the engine. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing.  It sounded dead.  The generator was running, so juice wasn’t the problem.  Jeff cleaned the connections on the batteries.  Tried again.  Nothing.  He checked the connections in the engine and tried again.  Nothing.  We were dead in the water.  Crap!! 

Poor Jeff was at it again, this time sweating in the engine compartment.  He though it may be a starter problem, but didn’t have a spare.  He put in a new bendix – whatever that is.  Four hours later Jeff looked as if he’d been caught in a squall, puddles surrounding him on the floor.  He tried turning the key.  Nothing.  As a last resort he beat on the starter with a rubber mallet; turned the key; she fired right up.  The high-tech fix.

By now it was pretty late in the day to be making the run to Cartagena.  We knew we might end up arriving in the dark, but the thought of staying there another night and possibly not getting the engine to start again was worse.  We set off.  This being a weekend, we had to employ our defensive driving skills again, dodging recreational boaters who don’t know the rules of the road, and don’t understand the limited maneuverability of a sailboat.

We arrived at the entrance to Bahia Cartagena about 16:00, and it took another hour once inside the bay to get to the marina.  I’m so grateful we still had daylight, or it would have been extremely difficult finding our way among al the lights in the skyscraper-ringed bay.  Many of the channel markers are missing, adding to the difficulty.  Since there is no cruising guide for Columbia, you have to just feel your way around.  What helped us the most was a disc that I copied form Judy on s/v Bebe.  She’s the woman in Shelter Bay Marina who warned me against going to Bocca del Torro because of all the no-see-ums.  She and her husband use the same navigation software we do, MaxSea.  They had recorded tracks of all their passages in this area, and also had tracks form another boat.  I loaded those into MaxSea and we were able to follow their tracks right up to what we figured must be the marina.  Proved to be correct.

Being a Saturday night and the locals were already partying, the marina staff stuck us in a temporary location until they could figure out where they wanted us for the week.  By then the wind was up, the current against us, and night rapidly descending.  Here they don’t have docks like in most west coast marinas; these are short fingers, about six feet only, and there are pilings at the end of where the normal dock finger would be.  You have to back your boat in between the pilings, and tie your bow lines to the pilings, your stern lines to the dock.  Sounds simple enough, but these sailboats don’t back up like a car; most of them back to port, and when you have wind and current also pushing against you on the starboard side, this becomes real tricky – evening entertainment for onlookers.  It took six marina staff, two passersby, plus Jeff and I and an hour and 15 minutes to jet Musetta situated.  We’re in a slip wide enough for a catamaran, which made tying off to the pilings difficult, as we couldn’t reach them with our lines.  We have to do it all over again in the morning when they decide what transient slip they want us in.  We’ll also have to check in tomorrow, get the scoop on wifi, package receipts, restrooms, etc. Tonight we’re going to shower and have dinner at the restaurant at the top of the dock.

Happy Birthday T!

Sunday, October 12, 2008, Club de Pesca, Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

We are forced to slow down and relax.  Today is a national holiday – Columbus Day – and tomorrow is when they actually celebrate it, so the locals get a three day weekend.  No wonder there was so much partying go on last night.  The office is closed, the wifi is down, so there’s not much we can do.

This morning three marina staff members came to move us further down the dock, and onto the opposite side where there’s less surge.  Wouldn’t you know it, the wind was up, but at least it wasn’t as bad as last night; within an hour we were settled into our new location.  One guy even changed the plug-in outlet on the electrical box from 50 to 30 amp so we could connect to shore power. 

David, an agent came by to collect our passports and boat documents to check us into the country; he said Immigration is open 24 hours, so he’ll have the papers back today; we’ll have to hang on the boat until he returns.   Since he spoke English, we asked him what the going exchange rate is; 2300 or 2400 to the dollar.  I knew we were getting taken in Isla Fuerte!  David also called a mechanic for us, who came to the boat within an hour.  Of course, since he was here, the engine started right up, time after time.  Still, we asked him if he could check the starter, clean it, possibly rebuild it – at least that’s what we tried to explain since he doesn’t speak English.  He said he would be back tomorrow.  Already I’ve noticed here in the city I’m having a harder time understanding people.  I think they are speaking rapidly, running the words together and clipping the ends off like people tend to do in big cities (“Prima Speak” my husband calls it).

Since we’re completely out of vegetables except for some jalapeños and a small piece of purple cabbage  (we’ve eaten so much cabbage this past week I’m sick of it) we’ll probably go out to dinner again tonight.  Last night was lovely.  Though the Club de Pesca is private, the restaurant of the same name at the top of the dock is open to the public.  It’s located inside one of the old fort gun batteries, right on the water; for ambience, it can’t be beat.  The food was excellent, and though the service was snail-paced, the band was terrific.  They had congas, trumpet, keyboard/female vocalist and guitar/male vocalist; it was amazing how much sound the four of them put out.  They played a variety of nouveau flaminco, pop standards, and classic Latin tunes, the vocalists harmonizing beautifully.  After dinner, we sat on our cabin top, sipping coffee liqueur drinks, enjoying the breeze and the music.

Monday, October 13-Monday, October 20, 2008, Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

What a gem the old walled city is!  Crowded with restaurants, bars, galleries, boutique hotels, museums, shops, artisans, street vendors, busy squares, shaded parks, horse-drawn carriages, public art, it is vibrant and alluring.  You could spend weeks here just exploring inside the walls.  The modern part, at the end of the peninsula is home to the high-rise hotels, mega malls, condominiums, and fast-paced lifestyle, though from our brief drive through this area, the pace is still not as frantic as in most major U. S. metropolitan areas.

To get the most out of our visit, we hired a guide to show us the historic sites of the city. Hernando – a big-bellied man with a pirate-type eye patch – has been a licensed city guide for over 20 years, and speaks English well.  His diminutive-sized driver, Willie, never uttered a peep all day, so I’m certain he only spoke Spanish.

Our first stop was at the monastery at the top of La Popa (translation = prow, because it is shaped like the prow of a ship) Mountain overlooking the city.  From here, we got a better understanding of the layout of the bay and city.  I was amazed at how green the neighborhoods were; lots of trees, especially the Manga area where our marina is located, an area which used to be covered with mango orchards.  Spread before us was Columbia’s third largest city – 1 million people, behind Medellin’s 3 million and Bogota’s 9 million.  (Columbia has about 44 million total population.)  As we got on the subject of the population, Hernando went on at great length to make sure we understood that the drug cartels are different people from the average citizens of Columbia.  According to him, those in the drug cartel are lawless, godless, will kill anyone for any reason without qualms, and have no regard for love, family or friends; all they care about is money – their whole life is centered around money, money, money.  These are not the real Columbian people.  From what we’ve experienced so far, I can understand what he’s saying; the average citizens appear to be just the opposite.

Hernando pointed out the general vicinity of the Boyaca state, where the best emerald mines are located, and the Sierra Nevada, where the best marijuana is grown.  He also let it be known that if we wanted any particular “products” he could procure them, and while marijuana is not yet legal, it’s simply overlooked by authorities – akin to our military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

The monastery building itself wasn’t anything spectacular, though the courtyard was serene and lovely.  Built in 1603, it still houses priests who teach at a high school down the hill.  In the chapel was a statue of Candelaria, their patron saint, ensconced in an ornate alcove intricately carved in wood with gold leaf overlay.  It was fully restored five years ago, and now shines from annual upkeep.  In one outer hall of the monastery stood five or six glass cases in which were hanging the elaborate costumes the statue is dressed in when she’s paraded out on the saint’s birthday, February 2^nd.  (Sounds a bit pagan to me.)

Strolling through the cool hallways of the ancient building, Hernando gave us the two-minute background on Columbia: half the country is jungle; it’s main exports are emeralds, oil, gold, cotton, leather, fish, and roses; Cartagena province earned independence from Spain on November 11, 1811; the Columbian flag is a wide yellow band representing their gold, a blue band for the ocean, and a red band for their blood; the main sports are boxing and baseball; bullfights are held annually and cockfights are every weekend.  There you have it!

Driving back down the hill, the single road wound through clearly low-income housing.  You would think that the wealthy would want to live high up on this hill with the gorgeous view, but I guess they prefer to be close to the city center where everything’s happening.

Our next stop was the San Felipe Fort, though we didn’t go inside the massive structure.  Built in three separate stages, it was one of the major bastions of protection for the city.   In one of the outside corners was a monument to Don de Blasé, big war hero who lost one arm, one leg, and one eye in all his various skirmishes.  (Irreverently reminds me of the knight in Mel’s Brooks’ History of the World).  There was also a reproduction of a coin the British had minted in anticipation of their victory over the Spanish in capturing Cartagena.  Only problem was, they jumped the gun in producing that coin – they LOST the battle and had to leave! Reminds me of the bold newspaper banner that proclaimed Harry Truman’s loss in the election.

The very first president of Cartagena, Rafael Nuñez, also the composer of the national anthem and later the constitution in 1886, was from Cartagena.  We visited his breezy home, originally on the bank of a canal, but now facing a public park.  I expected it to be in the Spanish Colonial style, four wings built around a central courtyard; but this was an L-shaped structure with shaded wrap-around porch on both levels along the entire outside walls of the home – much more what we think of as “Caribbean-style.”  Constructed of wood, it has been lovingly restored and now shines like the floors of a basketball court.  As in Doctor Nuñez’s day, the lower floor houses offices and stores; the upper level was the living quarters.  The doctor’s writing desk was interesting: the writing surface folded up, and cabinet doors closed over all the little cubby holes, though I picture them stuffed to bursting with documents, envelopes, seals, and stamps.  The parlor, or living room, faced what once was the water, now the park, with a whole wall of graceful, shuttered doors opening onto the terrace.  None of the furniture was upholstered, just simple wood frame pieces.  My favorite was the dining room, an open octagon connecting the sleeping wing with the living quarters overlooking the beautiful yard below, catching the gentle breeze and whiffs of flowers.  To sit there must have felt like you were dining in a tree house! 

The rest of the afternoon, quite frankly, I could have done without.  First he took us to an emerald factory where they cut and polish the raw stones and fashion jewelry out of them.  The instant we walked into the small factory area, I started feeling sick; the smell of the solvents or whatever they use in preparing the stones and gold was overpowering.  I had to leave immediately!  Our “guide” took me through the opposite doors into the show room. “No!  I have to go outside!  I need fresh air!”  I saw the exit and ran for it, taking big gulps of exhaust- scented air; even that was preferable to the fumes in the factory.  Jeff politely stayed behind and listened to the spiel, constantly repeating, “Thank you, we don’t want to buy any emeralds.”  When he exited the showroom, our guide was right behind him, coming out to give me the pitch; she wasn’t going to let us get away with giving it her all to make a sale.  It was like walking onto a high-volume car lot.  I made a comment to her about the workers in the factory not wearing masks, and she just went’ right on with her canned responses about price and quality.  What a racket – obviously geared for the cruise ship tourists.

Back in the car, we told Fernando we didn’t want to buy anything; we just wanted to see historic sites.  So what does he do?  He has Willy drive us to the dungeons area in one corner of the old walled city.  We walked on top of the ramparts, then down to the dungeons, which were the original storage rooms, not jails.  What’s there now?  Shops.  Dozens of them, one after another, each filled with Columbian “artisan” souvenirs, all looking like mass-produced kitch.  Again, we told Hernando we didn’t want to shop.  “Go in that one,” he said, “just look around.”  That must have been one that pays him a commission.  But I just wasn’t in the mood the shop; I wanted history.

We strolled around the inner core of the walled city as Hernando pointed out a few old buildings, the slave market, the original city entrance.  Taking 230 years for the wall to be completed, besides acting as additional protection for the city, it separated the “haves” from the “have nots.”  Those too poor to live in the city were on the one-time island of Getsemani, right across the canal from the main entrance to the city.  They were connected by a bridge so they could go into the city to work, but the gate was closed to them at night.

Again Hernando brought us into a jewelry shop, this one where his son works creating jewelry.  I thought it was so we could meet his son, but no, it was another hard-sell arm-twisting pitch to get us to buy an emeralds.  “You must buy an emerald if you come to Columbia.”  We heard it over and over again, even from peddlers on the streets.  That was one aspect I didn’t care for in the city center; we were incessantly hounded by street vendors, hawking emeralds, sunglasses, CD’s, hammocks, spoons made from coconuts, beaded jewelry, fruit, brewed coffee, and more.  I believe their tourist season hadn’t gotten into full swing yet, so there was probably slim pickings for the peddlers.  Some of them I had to say “no thank you” to four or five times; they would walk across the street, cross behind me, then approach me from the other side, starting in again with their pleas to buy.  Perhaps they figured I wouldn’t recognize them.  By this time I was hungry, and had a headache from the fumes of the emerald factory, so my slim patience was worn to a gossamer-sheer thread; I found it hard to be civil to the most pesky peddlers.

Hernando said, “I know a good place for lunch: good food, reasonable prices.”  Well he was wrong on both counts, and judging by the camaraderie between him and the server, I’d say this is another place where he gets a kickback.  While waiting for our food, we listened to the piped in music, and they had the sappiest version of the birthday I’ve ever heard.  It was some guy with a put-on upper crust faux British accent dripping out “Oppy birthday my dahling” like a dirge.  What a riot.  Even after we once again explained to Hernando that I don’t wear much jewelry and don’t want to buy anything, he pulls a bag out of his upper shirt pocket and dumps its contents on the table.  They’re raw emeralds; he has a line with a guy at a mine and can sell them to us wholesale.  Right.  NO THANK YOU!!!

I was ready to dump Hernando then and there, but I was still hoping for more history.  We continued our walk; he took us to the best bar for salsa music.  It was blasting so loud it pounded inside my head.  No, we’re not here to party; we want to learn about the history.  He just didn’t get it.  Clearly his type of tour would be better suited for cruise ship tourists, not us.  We asked him to take us back to the marina.

Several days later, we walked to the city center from the marina, heading for the naval museum.  There we hired another guide, as the displays were in Spanish and we wanted to at least try to understand this fascinating city.  His name was Iris de Jesus.  Though he only stood about 5 feet four inches, he was quite distinguished looking: his shiny, black hair was slicked straight back into a small pony tail at the nape of his neck; graying at the temples and low on the forehead, his hair framed a brown, wizened face with deep-set ebony eyes and pencil-thin mustache; he wore a crisp white button-down shirt, good-quality pleated black slacks, and spit-polished shoes; he carried a walking cane, which he casually swung at his side or wielded as a pointer when explaining the naval battles in the Bay of Cartagena, and periodically he dabbed at his face with a clean white handkerchief.  He told me he was of mixed blood in his Columbian heritage.  “From the Indians I have my good head; from the Spaniards my bad side; and from the blacks, my beauty,” J

For three hours, Iris de Jesus spurted historical facts like a rainbird yard sprinkler.  He pointed with his cane on the 3-dimentional relief models, narrating the movements of the colonial ships; the more excited he got about the story, the faster he spoke, and the harder it was to decipher his heavily-accented English.  From what I gathered, Cartagena had been attached at least four times by pirates, then destroyed by the British raider Sir Frances Drake, who brought a contingent of dozens of ships and over 23,000 people, including George Washington’s half brother.   The protective wall around the city was started in 1614 from an Italian architect’s design, and eventually there were at least five forts around the bay, the first one being at the point where our marina, Club de Pesca is located.  There’s nothing left of the original fort, but the current fort, built on the same site in the 1700s still has its outer walls.  It was built low to the ground so it wouldn’t stand out, and would be a surprise to ships that entered the bay from Boca Chica, becoming sitting ducks for the battery of cannon fire from the fort.

One interesting sight was the stuffed head of a white dog mounted on the wall!  This was Chicote, which means “the end of the rope,” honored in the Guiness Book of Records as the dog logging the most nautical miles, 217,000.  He arrived aboard the Columbian naval tall ship “Gloria” when he was a year old, and served as crew and “ambassador” until his death at age 14.  There were newspaper clippings depicting Chicote lined up with all the other officers, greeting guests on deck.  His other job aboard ship was storm warning: two hours before a storm was coming, Chicote would stick his head in a hole and hide! J 

Speaking of tall ships, another interesting tidbit from Iris de Jesus: back in the days of wooden boats, more than 30,000 caimans were slaughtered annually; their fat was rendered down and used to waterproof the hulls.  Wonder how that smelled?!?!

After finishing in the Naval Museum, we walked to the Inquisition Museum.  Now THERE’s some sickos for you!  Started in 1233 by the pope, the order was to kill all those who didn’t believe in Jesus Christ as the one true god.  In Europe, two officers alone sent more than 20,000 people into the fire to their deaths.  In Cartagena, only a few were sent to the flames, but many were tortured, examples of their instruments on display at the museum.  How can people even THINK UP these ugly devices???  The order was finally cancelled in 1834.

On the upper floor of the museum was more history of Cartagena, including stern photos of its eight leaders for independence.  They achieved their goal in 1811, but in 1814 Pablo Murillo sailed back from Spain, took over the city, and shot all eight of the leaders.  A few years later, the Spanish were ousted once and for all,
Cartagena regained her independence, and the country of Columbia followed in 1819.

With my stomach growling noisily, and mouthwatering scents wafting up from the street vendors’ carts, we strolled around the block to our guide’s favorite restaurant, a tiny hole-in-the-wall with about six tables, all packed.  He decided to wait outside for a table, but graciously recommended a couple of good restaurants around the corner.  We selected his suggestion of a Cuban restaurant.  It was cool, quiet, and empty – a welcome relief from the heat and noise of the streets.  We sipped delicious but very expensive mojitos while waiting for our meal.  My pork in honey-tamarind-red wine sauce was gristly, but the sauce was divine.  Jeff’s was good too, I just can’t remember what he had – mojitos on an empty stomach, no doubt.

Back at the marina, we kept hearing a baby crying.  We thought maybe one of the dock workers had recorded it as his cell phone ringer, but no, it was an actual bambino.  There are two French catamarans side-tied next to us at the end of the dock; both have two children aboard, though we haven’t figured out which kids belong on which boat.  The newest addition to the family arrived about a month and a half ago; they gave her the beautiful name of Gabriella Columbina, in honor of her Columbian birthplace.  Boy, cruising is tough enough as it is; I can’t imagine doing it with two young children and a newborn!

A couple of evenings we walked two blocks to a nice little restaurant called De Oliva.  They served Columbian-and Mediterranean-inspired food, artfully presented, at reasonable prices.  Our waiter both times was very cordial, r3emarking each time how much I look like his favorite singer, Celine Dion.  I don’t see it, but what the heck; too bad I can’t sing!

We also tried the “timpan juevos” from the street vendor right outside the fort/Club de Pesca gates.  These are half-inch thick masa cakes, about four inches in diameter, stuffed with egg and sausage, deep fried until crisp and golden.  When you buy one, the vendor cuts it open and ladles a savory white sauce into if if you like.  Tasty breakfast fare, they cost 1,000 pesos – less than 50 cents.  We shared one the first time, just to try them.  The second time, we each had a whole one – MISTAKE!  My stomach was NOT happy with that drum of fat and corn!

The walk to the grocery store was a mere quarter mile, and they stocked pretty much everything we wanted.  The walkway is through a park along the waterfront and past Club Nautico, the main cruiser hangout.  Armed security guards are posted at every block in this Manga area.  We were told the current regime has made tourism in Cartagena one of their primary concerns, and is working to keep the city safe and build up the industry.  From what we’ve experienced, they seem to be doing a good job.  Regardless of where we walked, we never felt threatened or insecure, and there was always friendly help nearby if needed.  The people we interacted with on the streets were friendly, and didn’t stare at us like unwelcome outsiders as we’ve felt in other places.

All the boat workers on the docks were friendly too, seemed to work hard, and do well at their job, were reasonably priced, and seemed genuinely interested in taking care of their customers’ needs, not just making a quick buck.  We hired a guy named Chevera to polish Musetta’s hull.  He did a BEAUTIFUL job, and not only that, he polished all the stainless and bronze, and scrubbed the cockpit and cushions; she’s never looked so good!  He showed up every morning at 08:00, took a half hour lunch, and worked steadily until about 16:00; all this for less than $20 per day! 

Overall, we’ve thoroughly enjoyed our stay in Cartagena.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008, Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

We sent off a few final emails, fueled up and moved to the anchorage.  Funny, there are so many lights lining the bay, we can actually see better in the cockpit at night then when we were in the marina.  Even though we’re right next to the channel, the wakes of passing boats are not that bad; for the most part, the water is flat. 

Jeff sat in the cockpit half the evening watching the topless Columbian woman on the powerboat behind us.  She was either drunk or high, walking across the bow waving at him, doing a lot of screaming when her elderly gringo boyfriend tried to get her to go inside.  Better than a soap opera.

Ken and Dottie on Dreamweaver dinghied over to visit.  We leave in the morning.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008, Cartagena to Punta Hermosa, 10˚56.72N, 75˚01.84W

We were underway by 07:00, motoring slowly through the channel to Boca Grande, the eastern entrance to the bay.  The chart shows 11-foot depth at the opening; that’s because there’s a submerged wall across the entire span.  The Spaniards built it around 1771, as additional security for the busy shipping center.  Enemy ships coming in from the sea, not being able to see the wall, would be trapped by it, sitting targets for the mighty cannons aimed at them from the forts at each end of the entrance.  To build it, they constructed mango-wood scaffolding across the expanse, set guide rails down to the seabed, and dropped limestone blocks down the guide lines, stacking one atop the other.  Additional rock was piled on each side of the blocks to support the growing structure.  At the center, they left a small opening so the local fishing vessels could pass through.  From the surface you can’t see the wall at all, though you might be able to from an airplane; and you have to know exactly where the opening is to pass – all this in the days before GPS, electricity, and “modern” technology!

Outside the bay, we had 6-foot swells most of the day, close together, which made for a bucking ride; no wind until the squall hit about 12:30, with its 18-knot breeze, which boosted our speed a full knot to 8.5.  We made our chosen anchorage by 14:30, hook set the first time, no problem.  This small bay is flat and shallow, with nothing lining it but fish camps, though there appears to be a small village further in.  It’s not particularly pretty, but a nice, flat rest stop.

Thursday, October 23, 2008, Punta Hermosa to Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

The misery starts again.  We’d gotten spoiled by our stint in Cartagena – not having to worry about power, water, bugs.  With no mangroves near and being pretty far out from the shore, we never dreamed we would have a bug problem.  But we did.  Yup.  Mosquitoes.  They tracked us down during the night, fresh blood feeding those greedy little appetites.  Both of us have itchy, red swellings up and down our legs, feet, and arms.  And I was just about finished with the last of those earlier bites. L

I had pre-made lunch so I wouldn’t have to spend too much time below while underway; what with the heat and rocking, it’s instant mal-de-mer, Stugeron or not.  We were ready to pull anchor at 07:00.  Turned the key.  Nothing.  Here we go again!  L  The same problem we had in Rosario, which we thought had been fixed in Cartagena.

Jeff did all he could to get it started – including banging on the starter, all to no avail.  With no wind, we couldn’t even sail out.  Thank goodness we had our satellite phone.  Jeff called our maritime agent, David, and told him the problem.  After several phone calls, they decided the best option was to bring a mechanic to the boat.  We waited.

About 13:00 they called on the VHF; they were at the beach waiting for us to pick them up – David, Vladimir, and Albaro, a local helicopter pilot who has a new 40-foot carbon-fiber race boat and knows a lot about electrical systems.  Jeff set off in the dinghy; it was about a mile and a quarter to where they were.  By the time they got back to the boat, the squall was just starting and the poor guys were all drenched, but they set to work immediately, David translating.

If you know sailboats or have seen ours, you know there’s not much storage space; supplies, spares, equipment all get piled one atop the other in very compact spaces, which means, in order to get anything out, all the stuff on top has to be removed.  Of course, what you need is always on the bottom, and underneath all that pile is the electrical system they were trying to get to.  It seemed like the entire stern end of the boat was being disassembled, strewn across my salon, galley, and stateroom.  Add three guys to that, trying to get to the engine (which is underneath our galley sink/island), battery banks and generator (under the companionway and under the aft berth); there was nothing to do but sit in the blazing-hot cockpit and wait.

I chatted a bit with David, who told me this is a very dangerous spot, particularly for a lone boat; he said it’s not so bad if there are three or more boats, but one alone can be a problem.  In this area, there is no way for the locals to make a living other than fishing; if it’s been a bad season, or they weren’t able to fish for some reason, they go hungry.  He said they’ll come by your boat, offering to sell you fish or lobster, but really what they’re doing is checking your boat out to see what you’ve got.  If they spot something they want, they come back in the night with guns to rob you.  It’s also dangerous on land, as the extreme poverty breeds crime.  Even the busses traveling from city to city won’t stop there.  In fact, David and the two mechanics were driven there and escorted to the beach by armed Immigration officers.  Holy cow!  I guess we lucked out last night, since no one bothered us.  I asked him about the other stops we had planned; of the five, there were only two he felt were absolutely safe for a lone boat.  Looks like we’ll be doing more multiple-day passages.

The guys worked all afternoon trying to get Lucille (our engine – as in the Kenny Rogers song “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille”) started.  Their ride didn’t wait for them, so they HAD to get it going in order for us to take them back to Cartagena.  About 15:00, Dreamweaver, the boat that we expected to come down with, arrived in the anchorage, and right after that, an old guy paddled out to our boats.  When he got to ours, Vladimir climbed up on deck and greeted him; the old guy just kept paddling by.  But at Dreamweaver he stopped briefly, interacted with Dottie, then paddled off.  I dinghied over to tell Dottie the news of our engine, and what David said about the anchorage; once we get going, they’ll be alone, so I thought they should know, in case they wanted to leave.  She said she’d heard similar a report on the area from the dock Master at Club Nautico, but they chose to stop here anyway, and hoped the old guy wasn’t a scout for bolder hooligans.  She had given him some rice and snacks, and thought he would probably be satisfied with that.

Too hot to write more.

Friday, October 24, 2008, Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

God listens to my mom.  It’s true.  I KNOW she’s praying for us, and I KNOW we had a little divine intervention yesterday; she must be the reason. J  When I think of all the scenarios that may have occurred – us getting boarded at gunpoint, Jeff going ashore for help and getting jumped, etc., well it’s better NOT to think of them.  Actually, I was pretty angry in the morning when we couldn’t get going.  Both Jeff and I were frustrated as all hell, but as the afternoon wore on, I convinced myself to look on it as an adventure; isn’t that what cruising is all about? 

The guys were able to get Lucille going by hooking a battery up directly to the starter, bypassing the cable, which evidently was the problem.  About 17:00 we set off for Cartagena; I went below to cook dinner.  The guys were starving – they’d purchased lunch items before setting off from Cartagena, and accidentally left the bag at the store; I was unable to get to the galley while they were working, so they went all day without food.  I did my best to make a nice dinner, though I fear my efforts may have been lost on them.   Now understand, we are underway with the boat rocking side to side in the swells; I am below with the hatches closed, engine running full blast, door off, straddling a huge glass-mat battery that’s in the center of the galley floor, hooked to the engine; bowls and plates are sliding across the counter top, and I’m trying to cook dinner for five.  I made Moroccan chicken stew over couscous, steamed sweet potatoes and broccoli with orange olive oil, and Greek salad, followed by spice cookies and tangerine slices.  I thought everything was quite tasty.  But I’m afraid the meal was a little too exotic for this crowd; they also couldn’t SEE what they were eating because it was so dark in the cockpit, so that didn’t help.  Ah well.  I did what I could.  They liked the cookies, though. J

It’s been quite a few years since we’ve had so many people aboard Musetta at one time.  In fact, we don’t even have that many PFD’s anymore; we’d gotten rid of the old, uncomfortable ones because they were not being used, though we do have a couple inflatable vests that are like PFDs if needed in a pinch.  Fortunately there was plenty of moonlight, and it didn’t rain, so our passage back to Cartagena was relatively calm – just a bit uncomfortable with so many tired, sweaty bodies in the cockpit.  Mine especially.  I had gotten so drenched from cooking in that sauna below, I could smell the sour scent of dried sweat on my body and clothing.  I’ve never felt so unlady-like.  But, not much I could do.  I noticed one of the guys dowsed cologne on – must have been David because he was the only one with a satchel.  I’ve noticed the people in these Latin American countries wear strong doses of perfume and cologne; now I know why.  J

Albaro showed up at 08:30 this morning to commence work on the engine.  Turns out his suspicions were correct: the cable from the battery to the starter was corroded inside.  At one time, it had evidently been patched, but salt water was seeping in under the tape that covered the patch.  He and Jeff walked to the near-by marine store to purchase the replacement, then taxi’d to town to get the connection ends soldered; by 13:30 he’d completed the job.  Lucille cranked right up every time.  Let’s hope it stays that way.  He had to leave for another job, but is coming back tomorrow to clean all the connections and make sure everything is up-to-snuff.  Chevera came around, concerned about our coming back.  Everyone was, actually – the security staff, boat workers, staff; they genuinely care here.  We put Chevera to work cleaning the teak while we’re back.

David and Vladimir came by later to collect their pay.  As we expected, the price for our rescue was steep.  They have you, and they know it, and you know it.  What are you going to do but pay the price?  Education is expensive.  Two hundred dollars just for the Immigration escort alone, which couldn’t have taken more than two hours; Vladimir $135; and Albaro $300 including tomorrow’s work; considering he did most of the work, this is actually quite reasonable; David said “no charge” but I’m sure he’s getting a cut from the Immigration’s and Vladimir’s fee since Jeff overheard him telling Vladimir (in Spanish) that the price he quoted was too low.  We have no more pesos, and not much in dollars, so Jeff will have to make another trip to the bank today or tomorrow.     

Saturday & Sunday, October 25 & 26, 2008, Cartagena, 10˚24.899N, 75˚32.70W

We walked to the grocery store to replace the provisions we’d used so far.  Albaro finished with the engine and we tested it numerous times throughout the weekend, letting the battery go low just o see if it would start.  Did so every time.  Let’s hope the fix sticks. 

Chevera has the boat looking beautiful!  Since we’re back in the marina, we put him to work again, this time on the teak.  The cleaner he used brought up the natural honey color of the wood.  We were tired of fighting the sun, trying to keep the varnish looking good, so we had it all stripped down to bare wood while we were in Shelter Bay.  With this warm wood color, it looks very pretty.  Chevera’s got the hull shining like a newly waxed car; the decks and cockpit cushions are clean; the stainless gleams.  We paid him double for working on Sunday to get the job done.

We would have left today, but we’re still waiting for David to get our renewed exit papers.  I don’t know what the delay is – he’s very evasive.  I think just lazy. 

Monday, October 27 – Wednesday, October 29, 2008,  Cartagena to Ensenada Guayraca, 5 Bays, Columbia, 11˚19.46N, 74˚06.36W

What a grueling passage!  David finally brought our papers around 16:00, no apology or explanation for the delay.  We left Cartagena about 17:00.

The wind and wave conditions were do-able but they deteriorated rapidly.  From the weather reports we’d gotten, we knew the wind was going to be on our nose, but the strength was supposed to be low.  We were getting wind in the mid 20’s, with gusts up to 34 knots.  This in itself would have been manageable but the waves – which were supposed to be low – were 6-8 feet, 4-6 seconds apart; they were coming from a different direction than the wind, so the seas were very confused, the wind chop heavy.  Poor Musetta would ride up on one wave with no time to adjust before plowing bow down into the trough, the next wave crashing over her bow and even over the dodger, water pouring into the cockpit.  The scuppers were slurping madly, like a glutton guzzling through a straw in a soda-drinking competition, but they couldn’t handle the volume.  Water built up in the gunwhales, flowing into the cockpit on the sides.  We had water coming at us from every direction but aft.

With the seas so sloppy, both of us started getting sea sick and took Stugeron.  Jeff’s worked, mine didn’t.  I couldn’t go below for more than a couple seconds without my stomach roiling.  By the time my 22:00-24:00 watch came around, I was so sick, it was coming out both ends and I had to use a bucket in the cockpit!  How GROSS is THAT!!!?!?!??

We tried heading off the wind; one way would ride a little more comfortably but our boat speed decreased dramatically; the other way was worse than a bucking bronco, but we made a little better speed.  Either way was miserable.  At times our speed was down to 2 knots – practically standing still!

After 15 hours of these conditions we were so exhausted we decided to take our chances and stop at Punta Hermosa, where we’d had engine problems last week.  Even the risk of pirates seemed a better option than what we were enduring – that’s how bad it was!  Last week, it took us 7 hours to make Punta Hermosa; now it was 15 hours!

Miraculously, when we reached the point, the wind and seas laid down considerably.  Though we were tired, we decided to take advantage of the break and continue on.  Unfortunately, that good weather break only lasted an hour before it piped back up to gale conditions.  There was nothing we could do but keep going, even though that would put us into the anchorage at night.  The good thing was, we had a track on our navigation system from another boat that had made this same passage, so we could follow their track into the anchorage.

Unable to stay below, our meals consisted of cold risotto cakes, P.B.J’s for Jeff, and soda crackers for me.   We tried to get some rest while off watch, but it was too stifling and bumpy below, and we kept getting doused in the cockpit.  I repeatedly said to Jeff, “The good thing is, it’s not raining.”  Thirty minutes outside of 5 Bays, I couldn’t even say that!  We hit a squall with 32 knot winds and rain so dense we couldn’t see a thing, nor could the radar pick up anything through the clutter.  (I won’t repeat the cursing that went on.)  We had to slow down and circle in a holding pattern outside the entrance until the squall let up.  Even following the track, it was tense going into the anchorage.  There were lanchas in the entrance of the bay, local fishermen out working in ugly conditions like this!

With the strong wind, we had a devil of a time getting the main down.  We could see lights near the shore, which we thought were other boats, so we anchored well away in 35 feet; we had to let a lot of chain out before the anchor bit.  It was 01:45 when we finally shut Lucille down.  It had taken us 34 hours to go from Cartagena to 5 Bays, a trip that should have been completed in half that time.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008, Ensenada Guayraca, 5 Bays, Columbia, 11˚19.46N, 74˚06.36W

We slept like the dead, and are both a bit rummy today.  There is salt water everywhere inside the boat; it seeped through the ports, splashed down through the dorades, and our soaked clothing dripped everywhere we ventured.  Our bed was drenched – AGAIN!  We discovered the port above it leaks, and even though the hatch above it was closed, one of the locks on the hatch wasn’t dogged down as tight as it could possibly go - it was slightly askew, enough to allow water to seep through.  Thirty six hours of constant seepage = drenched bed.  We put everything out on the lines and boom to dry in the sun.

There are nine other cruising boats in this bay, all of them heading to Cartagena.  A couple came by in their dinghy to chat with Jeff, make sure we knew we were heading the wrong way (yes, we do), and gave him a piece of fresh Mahi-Mahi they’d caught on the way down.  We grilled it for dinner with plantains and green beans, and I made a fresh fruit salsa to top it.

The wind is still very strong; Musetta is circling on her rode like a ballerina.  I emailed our weather expert, Chris Parker, for an update, as the cruisers here said conditions were supposed to calm down by Saturday or Sunday.

If we have to stay to wait for a window, this is a lovely place to hang.  These bays look like a giant hand clawed through the piled muck and scraped out five deep inlets as the mud forming the mountains was drying.  Steep mountains surround the bay, covered with dense trees right down to the waterline, and rugged boulders with tiny beaches caress the shore.  It reminds me a lot of the Pacific Northwest in that respect, though here the water is cool enough to be refreshing but warm enough to swim in.  And there are no bugs!  There is a small village here, and a few modest homes scattered under the trees.  Both Jeff and I find this to be the most beautiful and peaceful place we’ve encountered so far in this cruising season.  It’s clear now that we are not white sand beach and palm tree kind of people; we would trade that for hills, trees and rocks any day.  But we had to come all the way down here to find that out!  This confirms that our choice to retire in the San Juan Islands was a good move in that respect.  Who knows, maybe when we get to North Carolina we’ll truck Musetta back home so we can cruise there; there are all kinds of possibilities.

Thursday, October 30, 2008,  Ensenada Guayraca, 5 Bays, Columbia, 11˚19.46N, 74˚06.36W  

We slept until almost 10:00, still recovering from our ordeal.  The strong winds continue, buffeting us in circles.  I cleaned the boat inside, and washed the salt water out of our clothing so it could dry.  The virgin white skin on my bum was broken out from sitting is salt water-drenched clothing so long!  My hands were so pruney from all the water during our passage, even now just the slightest bit of water will instantly wrinkle the skin again.  Jeff worked on repairing things on the boat.  Musetta didn’t  sustain any damage during the passage, but things came undone on deck, and objects below were thrown across the cabin. 

I got word back from Chris Parker, the weather guru.  He said “It’s been a long time since I saw such a good, high-confidence forecast go so wrong so quickly.”  I take comfort in his words, as they prove our decision to depart on Monday wasn’t just a case of poor judgment; even the expert didn’t see it coming!  We’ve had daily squalls since, but none as fierce as we experienced coming in.

Our stop-over has given me time to finish the book I’ve been reading, The Extra Man, by Jonathan Ames.  Though I enjoyed its humor, it’s not for everyone.  In the interview in the back, the author said something that really hit home for me; he was lamenting that Times Square has become one big mall of powerful chain stores.  “What I did like about the old Times Square, and you can still find this in New York, was that it was a place of decadence and risk and danger.  I don’t climb mountains very often or sail solo around the world, but I do like to have a little danger in my life once in a while and I could find it in Times Square.  So maybe it’s not there anymore, but elsewhere trouble still lurks.  And people need trouble.  It gives them something to thing about, makes them feel alive.”

My sister emailed that my mom had a mass said for us. I’m grateful to have my mom praying for this errant daughter who’s out looking for danger and LIVING her life! J

Friday, October 31, 2008, Ensenada Guayraca, 5 Bays, Columbia, 11˚19.46N, 74˚06.36W   

Last night Musetta was spinning and wallowing so badly I got seasick.  Couldn’t sleep either; my stomach was just a mess. So I got up early this morning, pulled out the chart and started calculating the length of each of our passages to get to Grenada.  Jeff calculated our fuel consumption.  Not good.  Having slogged upwind so many hours to get here, we used twice as much fuel as we should have.  If our next passages are the same, we won’t have enough to get to Aruba.  Oh brother, now what?  Yes, the true sailor would sail well off the wind, days out of his way, to reach the same destination without burning fuel.  Heck, the true sailor wouldn’t even be going this direction!  Clearly we’re not true sailors; we had a power boat for years and we have a powerboat mentality; we want to GET there.  Now!

From emails and phone calls to Cartagena, we learned there is nowhere to get diesel between here and Aruba; the only place is Santa Marta, approximately 25 miles back by road.  We had avoided this port because of the negative reports from other cruisers: you HAVE to check in, which takes half a day, and the authorities are charging in the neighborhood of $200US.  Compare this with a total of $75US in Cartagena for the check-in fee, cruising permit, and maritime agents’ services.  Somebody’s getting some well-padded pockets in Santa Marta!

We launched our dinghy and started visiting other boats in the marina.  Some were already leaving today, but two of them were kind enough to loan us some jerry jugs.  They gave us directions to find Reynaldo Garcia, the guy in the village who can arrange a taxi to Santa Marta

Reynaldo greeted us at the shore when we pulled up.  I introduced myself and he said “Estephanie – like Gloria Estefan!” About 5’5”, 50+ years, missing a half dozen teeth, he bustled about collecting our seven jerry jugs, carrying them to his home – a windowless, wooden shack on a concrete pad, not much larger than a single car garage.  He invited us inside where it was cool, and offered us seats on a couple of white plastic chairs.  The floor was tidily swept, the household items neatly arranged on bits of furniture around the room; a single lantern hung in the center.  Outside he had a grate over a fire pit for cooking, his laundry strung, a large sturdy bench/table for working, and assorted barrels and drums lined the yard.  He wanted to get the fuel for us tomorrow; we explained that we HAD to do it today because some of the boats were leaving early in the morning. Left unspoken was our concern about getting the proper product put in the jugs, as well as getting them back.  We’d heard of other cruisers who’d given their jugs to someone to fill and got ripped off with a mixture of water topped with diesel to make the can full.  There was no way we were going to let hose jugs out of our sight!

Reynaldo changed from sandals to shoes and socks, grabbed a small backpack, and slapped a padlock on his door.  He helped us muscle the dink up to a spot by another shack that was secure from the rising tide, and asked one of his friends to keep an eye on the gasoline tank for us.  Our outboard was locked onto the transom, but the tank and hose was out there for slippery fingers.

We set off through the village, Reynaldo waving and cheerily hailing all we passed.  The dirt road up from the village on the beach reminded me of the one outside the marina in Nicaragua, all pot-holes and rivulets from the recent storm.  Reynaldo said that yesterday he arranged a mini-van for a group of cruisers to go to Santa Marta to provision and the van almost couldn’t get out, it was sliding so badly on the road.  Been there, done that.

This area is a national park, with one paved road cutting through it from the entrance to the look-out point at the top of the mountain.  When we got to the road, Reynaldo explained that we had to wait for a car to go by.  Hopefully the driver could call a taxi for us, or if we’re REALLY lucky, a taxi would come by.  Unfortunately, most of the traffic comes in the morning, which was why he wanted to fill the jugs tomorrow.  We waited.  Reynaldo chattered away, teasingly calling me “Gloria,” me getting the gist of most of what he was saying, Jeff zoning out.  We waited.  A couple drove by in a rental car; Reynaldo stopped them and gave the driver his taxi-friend’s phone number, but the cell phone couldn’t pick up any service; he said he would try again when he got to the top.  We waited.  An almost-empty tour bus barreled by, completely ignoring our shouts and frantic waving, swerving to avoid Reynaldo, who was flagging him down from the middle of the street.  What, did we look like banditos or something????  We waited.  A couple guys on a motor scooter drove up, turning onto the road to the village.  Shortly after, the driver returned heading out; Reynaldo stopped him, asking for a lift into town so he could call a cab.  I could tell the guy was reluctant to do it for some reason; it took quite a bit of coercing on Reynaldo’s part.  Deal struck – for what fee I don’t know – they sped off, but not before Reynaldo emphatically told us to WAIT THERE; do NOT take a ride from ANYONE!!!

So there we were, alone on a hot, empty road, waiting.  I related to Jeff Reynaldo’s story of the indigenous Indians in those mountains.  According to him, they are tall, muscular, very strong people, which was why the Spaniards wanted them as slaves.  They still live off the land as in old times, and don’t like visitors intruding on their territory.  As a consequence, special permits are required to visit them, and there have been skirmishes between the Indians and the cocaine cartel guards.  It is amazing to me how the drug industry is such an accepted part of life here in Columbia; though there seems to be a division – those people, and the regular, everyday working people.

We waited.  We picked up sticks and scratched a hang man game in the dirt.  We waited.  We listened to birds.  We waited.  We paced.  We waited.  A little over an hour after Reynaldo had left, here comes a mini crew-cab truck, honking its horn, flashing its lights.  It was Reynaldo and his taxi-friend.  Our total wait was over three hours – a long time when you’ve got nothing to do on the side of a hot, empty road.

The drive to the filling station was like in a Hollywood chase scene, only it was our driver chasing time; he careened around pot holes, boulders, and branches, past slow poke motor scooters and cumbersome trucks, down hillsides of verdant shrubs, trees, and pastures.  One truck we hurtled past going in the opposite direction – I swear there was only six inches between our two vehicles!  It was one of moments like watching a horror film: you can see what’s coming, your heart stops, you hold your breath, bite your fingernails, your body strains tight, and you don’t want to look but you can’t NOT look.

It took about 25 fretful minutes to get to the filling station on the main highway outside the remotest stretches of Santa Marta.  Uh-oh.  They don’t accept credit cards, don’t accept US Dollars; pesos only.  We didn’t have enough pesos left; we would have to go into Santa Marta to an exchange or ATM.  We load the jugs back into the pick-up, not trusting to leave them to be filled properly in our absence.  We didn’t mean to disparage anyone, just wanted to play it safe.

Boy, am I glad we didn’t go to Santa Marta!  What an ugly, dirty, noisy, bustling town!  People thronged the streets that we raced through as if in a labyrinth.  The sheer volume of street sounds was an assault to our ears.  They took us to an exchange, where Jeff got enough pesos for dollars – at not such a great rate – to cover the fuel, taxi, and something for Reynaldo’s service.  Another wild, winding dash through town, back to the “bomba” (filling station).  We made sure each 5-gallon jug got a full SIX gallons; I wished we’d had even more jugs to fill.

On the way back, the security guards at the park entrance gates let us go through without having to pay; Reynaldo and the driver got a big kick out of that, like they’d SCORED!  I surmised the guards realized we weren’t there as tourists; in any case, it was nice of them.  In fact, we have consistently found the Columbian people to be the most genuinely friendly and helpful people of all the countries we’ve visited.  I guess they haven’t yet been spoiled by tourism and the temptation to make a quick buck on easy-target yachtistas.

Our dink, outboard and gas tank were unharmed when we returned.  The driver and Reynaldo helped us lug the dink to the water and load our jugs.  The taxi driver’s fee was roughly $60US, of which he slipped a few bills to Reynaldo.  Jeff asked Reynaldo what his fee was for his services; he seemed surprised in a way, and said there’s no set fee, just whatever tip you would like to give.  Amazing!  Jeff gave him the rest of the pesos that he’d gotten at the exchange, a little over $25US.  The sun was just starting to drop as we motored back to Musetta.  We still had to empty the jugs into our tank and return them to their owners.

Another all-day excursion into the countryside for a few gallons of diesel.  Another adventure.